


Soulmate City

by Redrikki



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trope Subversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: There's something in the water and everyone wakes up with someone else's name on their wrist. If you think this ends well, you don't know Gotham.





	Soulmate City

There’s something in the water. It’s Gotham. There’s always something in the water. This time though it’s not Joker venom or fear toxin or dangerous industrial solvents known to cause cancer. No, this time it’s something much more insidious.

*

Damian notices the rash stepping out of his post-patrol shower. The faint gray marks on his wrist itch and burn. Running it under cold water does not help, but he is determined not to give into the plebeian urge to scratch. He slathers it with zinc oxide and goes to bed. By the time he wakes, the itch has faded and the marks have darkened to spell out _Richard Grayson_ in bold black letters.

“Explain this,” Damian demands, shoving the offending arm in his father’s face.

“Working on it,” he says without bothering to look up from whatever he’s studying under his microscope. He’s face is covered in stubble and he does not appear to have slept. _Selena Kyle_ curls around his wrist like the tail of a contented cat.

“Do you—“

“No,” father cuts him off. No, father doesn’t know what’s going on. No, he doesn’t require Damian’s assistance. No, he doesn’t want him there. Damian swallows his hurt and goes.

* 

Father may not have a clue what is happening, but the local news isn’t short of people with their own hypothesis.

“It don’t mean a thing,” says the proverbial man on the street. He has the tired look of a man who has seen everything this city has to offer and is done with all of it. “It’s just more Gotham bull—”

The station bleeps over the tail end of his comments and cuts to someone identified as a Gotham University professor. There’s no information about his area of study, but there are leather patches on his tweed jacket so he at least looks like he knows what he’s talking about. 

“Obviously, we haven’t had much time to study the phenomenon,” he says, “but, based on a preliminary survey, it seems like 90 percent of us have the name of someone we know, although the nature of the relationships vary.” He doesn’t mention his sample size, but it’s safe to assume it consists of his students and possibly colleagues as well. “Matched pairs are incredibly rare and I’m not prepared to speculate on what it means.”

Jump cut to an elated young woman with her arm around a not nearly as thrilled young man. “We’re soulmates,” she crows, showing off their no doubt matching names.

Soulmates. TT. Damian shuts off the television in disgust. He traces the writing on his wrist with a frown. Richard Grayson is his brother, his mentor, his Batman. Damian would literally die for the man, but soulmates is just so overwrought. Still, he can’t help wondering if they match.

*

He finds Pennyworth washing dishes in the kitchen. The name _Martha Wayne_ peaks out above the cuff of his rubber gloves.

“Was Grandmother Wayne your soulmate?” Damian asks and Pennyworth fumbles the teacup, catching it just before it can shatter in the sink. 

“What on earth makes you think that?” he says calmly like he hadn’t nearly just broken a literally irreplaceable antique teacup. He rinses it off and sets it in the dish drainer. 

“A theory proposed by the local news. I am conducting a survey to test the hypothesis.”

Pennyworth studies him with narrowed eyes. “No,” he says, turning back to his work. “Martha Wayne was a respected employer and dear friend, but there was nothing untoward about our relationship and we certainly weren’t soulmates.” 

Damian nods curtly. “Thank you,” he says and goes to make some phone calls.

*

None of their various allies outside of Gotham seem to be effected by this whatever it is. Clearly, it’s a local problem. Damian contacts several Wayne Enterprises board members and employees in addition to the vigilante set in order to expand his sample size. Everyone who doesn’t simply hang up on him has the name of someone they know. Twenty-six percent have a family member, and thirty precent have a friend. One WE board member has the name of a high school sports rival. 

Everyone else bares the name of a current or former lover. Drake has Brown’s name while she has _Alvin Draper_. Kyle and father are a matched set. Mother’s head would probably explode if she found out. 

Gordon has _Richard Grayson_. Hearing it, Damian is struck by a stab of jealousy sharp enough to take his breath away. He hangs up when she asks after the name on his wrist rather than try to pretend that their relationships with Grayson are in any way comparable. There’s no point in calling Grayson himself to see which of their names he has. He’s been gone on a secret mission for the last fortnight. 

*

They break up two fights on their way to answer the bat-signal. 

A man goes after his neighbor with a baseball bat. “She’s my wife, you son of a bitch,” he roars, swinging to take off the other man’s head. Batman barely manages to intercept him in time. 

“Stay away from my man,” a woman shrieks as she makes a concerted effort to claw another’s face off. Even as Damian attempts to pull her off she manages to snag the hoops of the other woman’s earrings and yanks. 

They’re both bruised and blood spattered by the time they meet Commissioner Gordon on the police headquarters’ roof. 

“We’ve had more domestic calls tonight than we do in a week,” he says tiredly. He takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. The writing on his wrist says _Batman_ and isn’t that interesting. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

“I’ve isolated the compound responsible,” Batman says, handing over a copy of the mass spectrometer analysis. It’s doubtful Gordon knows what he’s looking at, but he nods looking it over all the same. 

“I believe I’ve found a way to filter it out of the water supply but—” he hesitates “—I’m sorry, Jim. There’s no way to get rid of the marks.”

“Yeah,” Gordon sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I was expecting that. Well, you better come in and talk to the guys from the Water Board,” he says, leading the way to the stairwell. 

Damian moves to follow him when Batman catches his arm. “This is going to take awhile, Robin. Head directly home,” he orders and leaves Damian standing on the rooftop alone.

*

There is a boy a year or so younger than Drake crying on the corner of Twelfth and Pine Streets. Damian drops down beside him and he practically leaps out of his skin like someone who’s never heard of situational awareness. He’s lucky it’s just Robin who has the drop on him and not any of the city’s many, many threats.

“Are you injured?” Damian looks him over. Good clothes, overstuffed backpack at his feet. There’s a bruise beginning to darken his cheek, but he clearly hasn’t been mugged. Not yet anyway. “What’s the matter?”

The boy makes a half-hearted attempt to contain his sniveling. “My mom,” he says, wiping the snot from his nose. “She threw me out.” He pulls back his sleeve to reveal _Zachary Murray_. “She thinks I’m gay.”

“TT. Your mother is an idiot. There is nothing to indicate the names are sexual in nature,” Damian says, acutely aware of _Richard Grayson_ under his gloves. 

“Mine is,” the boy says, his lips twisting in a bitter line.

“She’s still an idiot. Do you need money?” Damian asks. He fishes out a roll of twenties from his emergency stash and tosses it over without bothering to wait for an answer. 

The boy stares at the money like he thinks it might explode. “What—”

“My mother doesn’t want me either,” Damian says before he can stop himself. He springs to his feet, distancing himself from the words. “There is a Wayne Foundation youth shelter a few blocks from here. I’ll escort you.” The boy follows him without protest. 

They walk in awkward silence, the sounds of the city drifting over them. Cars honk. Sirens blare. A typical Gotham serenade.

“What do you think they are?” the boy asks, rubbing his wrist. “The names, I mean.”

Raised voices escape from an open window. The sound of breaking crockery chases after them. The commissioner said they’d had more domestic calls in one night than the police usually got in a week. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Damian thinks of a man attacking his neighbor with a bat, of a woman with her earrings ripped out, and a boy thrown out like trash. “They’re a plot to destroy the city.”


End file.
